


can we keep up with the ruse

by removedhergrace



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Coming Out, Fighting, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/removedhergrace/pseuds/removedhergrace
Summary: Jack is nothing but direct, engages conflict in a way Connor is never in the mood for. He would have called Connor, probably, if he was concerned enough.Connor thinks about that, a lot, maybe too much, that Jack hasn’t asked him to stop.
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 18
Kudos: 127
Collections: The Sin Bin: A Hockey RPF Kink Meme





	can we keep up with the ruse

**Author's Note:**

> Donate to the [TransWomen of Color Collective](https://www.twocc.us/donate/)
> 
> inspired by this sinbin [prompt](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=5354446#cmt5354446) in which anon requested 'Any/Any-coming out and hockey fights' 
> 
> title, like many things that ache, from lorde's 'sober ii' 
> 
> brief cw: an unnamed character calls jack the f-slur during a game - if that's something you'd prefer to skip, you can stop reading at 'Connor isn’t sure if it was conscious or not' and start again at 'When Jack came out'

Connor takes the length of Tippet’s post-game speech to think of a response to the question he knows is coming, both from the media and the team, if the stares from around the room are to be believed. His third fight in as many games is, well, it is what it is. And he knows, better than he knows most things, that if he were to tell the media, even his team, the reason he’s been throwing punches, that he could receive a few in return, and right now this outlet might be all he has. 

He takes one look at his phone, sees a message, reads ‘cut it out, dumbass’ in a notification preview from an unknown number. Connor takes a single deep breath, places the phone facedown in his stall so he won’t like, throw it at the Oilers’ head of PR, just as she lets media into the room. 

The first time the Oilers play the Sabres since Connor’s RAW debut, the unknown number chirps up again, coming early enough in the day that Connor has not yet had the chance to throw a punch, wrestle someone down to the ice. 

‘who’s ass are you gonna kick tonight?? mine??’ the text reads. Great. 

Connor considers responding. He’s not sure, really, why Jack texts him after he fights, after all of these years. Connor knows, from looking at his own habits, that this change in behavior is a lost cause, product of shitty self control. The memory is altered, for sure, from pain and what have you, but Connor’s sure that Jack wasn’t too concerned about how Connor could be hurt, at the end. How Connor was hurt, when things fell apart. Connor isn't sure what's different now (a lie), guesses that the stitches on his knuckles should probably burn more than the emptiness in his summer home or the calls he won't place. 

Connor isn’t sure if it was conscious or not, when it started. In his defense, he’s caught off guard the first time it comes up in the team’s mandated media training, called to discuss ‘star player that came out, which you know the media is going to ask you about.’ Their head of PR shows a clip from a Sabres pre-season game in which a player on the opposing team yells ‘eat shit, fag’ at Jack, and gets it picked up on a ref’s mic. The ensuing line brawl is picked up by every TV camera. 

The first time they play that team, Connor waits a little longer on a line change, battles for the puck along the boards and throws a hit, bordering on roughing, towards the offending player. Because like, if Connor thinks about it, if he’s just being rational, the guy is homophobic and would probably say the same things to Connor, so he’s being proactive. Responsive, even. 

Four fights and fifty penalty minutes later, Connor is feeling really proactive. Responsive. Responsible, even. 

When Jack came out, Connor threw up before the end of the press conference, bile sharp against the back of his throat. Jack’s prepared statement changed in the two years since Connor read it over his shoulder, curled up on the couch in Connor’s Toronto house. 

It sounds less apologetic, maybe more matter of fact. There’s more direct language about how he feels, why he’s doing this, and how many questions he’ll take after he finishes reading off the piece of paper. There is little to no reference of the process, of the years he spent agonizing over this choice, talking it over with Connor, and then for another two years alone. Or maybe not, alone, not that it’s Connor’s business anymore. 

There is, ‘I’m gay,” which Connor knew, and there is “for my family and friends, my teammates and peers, and the organization as a whole, this information is not new, and they all support me in sharing this information with you all today,” which Connor did not. 

Connor isn’t sure what triggers the gag reflex. It’s probably when Jack says that “coming out to the wider public allows me to live openly in a way that I have wanted to for a long time.” Maybe it triggers a literal gut response to hear those words again, live openly, coming from a man who looks tired but relieved. Not out of Connor’s own mouth, who spit them back sarcastically at the love of his life, who ended their relationship five hours later. 

On his TV, Jack’s mouth turns down for a moment before it rights into a forced smile. He answers the reporter’s question of whether people around the league are showing support staring directly into the barrel of the camera. Jack has to know Connor is watching; Connor’s always been a bit of a sure thing.

Connor responds to the text, for once. He figures he owes Jack this little peace of mind, coming into his building and all. No one has put it together yet, that Connor McDavid keeps fighting players who check the Sabres’ captain too hard when he doesn’t have the puck, or get unsportsmanlike conduct penalties after squaring up across from Jack at the dot. Connor’s lucky that no one has been able to move past the glee of penalty-minute McJesus to pick up on the pattern. Probably, the worst thing he could do after rebuffing his partner in said partner’s most vulnerable moment would be to out their old relationship. An immediate media nightmare, on top of the shit Jack already deals with. 

He texts back, ‘oilers fans, maybe, if they start some shit. idk gotta keep my options open’ because this, this he can do. He knows Jack well enough, even after all this time. Knows Jack doesn’t really want to talk, would start a real conversation if he felt it necessary. Jack is nothing but direct, engages conflict in a way Connor is never in the mood for. He would have called Connor, probably, if he was concerned enough. 

Connor thinks about that, a lot, maybe too much, that Jack hasn’t asked him to stop. 

The team plays Toronto next on the schedule, plans to stay over in Buffalo for the night. When the text comes, an hour or so after Connor’s returned to his room, he’s surprised. Maybe he shouldn’t be, after avoiding eye contact with Jack plenty of times that evening, but Jack has not reached out when there wasn’t a fight to prompt him in two years. 

Connor’s uber pulls up to the hotel curb; ETA: twenty minutes. He figures the two of them will talk for an hour, maybe two, warmer than stilted, awkward conversation but still hollow, comparing. Connor feels more settled when he correctly predicts Jack’s facial expression the moment before Jack opens the door. Jack tries to hide a grimace, face smoothing into a tight smile. He nods at Connor before stepping back to let him into the house. 

Jack pours Connor a cup of decaf, neither willing to acknowledge the old routine Jack replicates. Connor doesn’t drink decaf after games, anymore. Misses how his boyfriend made it, never wanted to look too hard into the things he let slide once Jack was gone. 

The talk is light. It doesn’t feel like purposeful avoidance to Connor. Maybe it does to Jack, but it’s been long enough that the two of them have plenty to cover. Connor asks after Jack’s family and Jack does the same. Connor asks how Jack is doing, not exactly pointed, but clear enough to mean ‘as a gay hockey player’ and Jack tells him that things have been, “hard, maybe easier than I thought but still difficult, a lot of the time” looking firmly into his cup of coffee, refusing to make eye-contact. 

Jack tells Connor he wants to adopt a dog next season and Connor tells Jack about his latest foster cat, Muffin, who shredded his five-hundred dollar living room curtains the previous weekend. Jack scoffs when Connor pulls up pictures, shaking his head, no doubt recalling Connor’s years-long stance that having a pet while being on the road was a bad idea. 

Jack asks about the fighting for the first time after about an hour of idle chatter. He pushes off from the counter to refill his mug with water and asks, over the noise from the faucet, “so what’s with the fighting, Connor, I mean, jesus.” 

Connor sighs and chokes out a short laugh. 

“Yeah uh, at least I was on good behavior tonight, eh?” 

Jack ducks his head and shakes it a bit, but he fixes Connor with another look, immediately after, and Connor keeps going.

“I mean, I won’t lie and say it wasn’t about you, a little. It’s hard to avoid all the stories about guys doing horrible shit to you, on the ice, so it wasn’t like I was stalking you or reading your press, or anything.” 

Connor pauses to look at Jack, frozen against his side of the counter, holding himself still enough to pretend it’s casual. 

“And like, whatever issues I’ve had, with...well, you know, I knew those guys would have hated me just as much as you if I knew, and so it mostly felt like I was getting them back over like, a larger thing than just you, I guess. But yeah I mean, I’ll admit that I don’t love the idea of anyone hurting you, but like, this was more about me, working through stuff, I think?” 

Jack nods in hesitant understanding; Connor knows this look on his face, too. Jack wants to probe more, poke some holes, but he leaves it, steps away from the counter, cracking a joke about Connor’s self control, and offers him another cup.

Connor is expecting a text when he gets off the ice; he’s not an idiot. Jack and him left things friendly enough, the night before. The missed call, no voicemail, no text throws him; even moreso concerning is the lack of follow-up when he ducks into the hallway after his post-game shower to check his phone again. Connor wonders what he’d done, what he missed, to throw their routine like this, how he’d alienated Jack this badly. 

Jack is leaning against the door outside of Connor’s hotel room, scrolling on his phone, when the doors to the elevator open. Jack nods once at Connor, acknowledgement, and then gestures towards the door. Connor inhales once, sharp, and then slides his keycard through the port. He’d rather do this in the privacy of his own room, anyway, before the rest of the guys get back. While his weekly smackdowns haven’t exactly been discrete, he’d rather not, well, be this exposed. 

Connor moves into the room ahead of Jack and ducks right into the bathroom to splash water on his face. When he comes back into the main room, bag forgotten in the bathroom, Jack is perched on the edge of the bed, tension obvious, shoulders tucked up towards his ears. 

Jack exhales loud. Angry. 

“What the literal fuck, Connor. I mean - fuck. Yesterday was the first time we’ve been in the same room in two years and all you could talk about was your foster cat and your brother, and then you go and punch someone else in the face, tonight. Jesus, Con, what the fuck is going on.” 

Connor leans back against the wall, senses Jack isn’t finished. 

“I’m not gonna say that you’re lying, Connor, but you’re not telling the truth, the full one anyway. And you owe me that, still, so…” Jack trails off, dropping his head into hand hands, arms braced on his thighs. 

Connor pauses for a moment, weighing the only two options he’s ever had: love this man or hurt this man. Lately, maybe, for a long time, they’ve felt one in the same. 

“It means...probably what you think it does, and to be fair I didn’t really know at first, that it did. But it does, so like, you should probably leave, now, if uh, that bothers you. If you don’t want to hear that, anymore.”

It’s Connors turn, this time, to put his head in his hands before he continues. 

“I’ve loved you for a long time, you know, even when I was unkind to you. Maybe I felt guilty, at first, that these people hurt you and everyone was, I mean rightfully, was calling them horrible, but like, there I had been, telling you to hide and refusing to hear you out. Leaving. Once I realized, you know, all of it, not just that I was targeting guys but my own guilt, or whatever, I just...I didn’t have another person to tell, so I just kept doing it. So like I said, I mean, if it bothers you, if this bothers you, you’ve gotta tell me Jack because I’ve got, nothing else right now, to say, to do. Nothing.” 

Jack’s sigh in response is like a yoga breath exhale, and then he’s pushing into Connor’s space, pulling Connor’s head up, muttering “everything you do fucking bothers me.” Jack barrels both of them down to the bed and kisses Connor like holding on for dear life, like punching a third line winger with twelve million dollar hands because you felt like you’d burst otherwise. 

Connor twists a hand up into Jack’s hair and hisses, forgetting in the moment his stitched knuckles, the blood drying in spiderweb cracks. Jack pulls back, assessing Connor for the hurt Jack heard, eyes locking on the hand Connor cradles to this chest. Jack reaches towards Connor, hesitating only a moment before grabbing Connor’s wrist and pulling the hand into his lap. 

Jack smooths his thumb across Connor’s knuckles, catching on the tied end of stitches. He leans in to press a kiss to Connor’s forehead and pulls himself up from the bed. When he returns from the bathroom, he’s holding a cloth, damp and warm, soap clear on one of the corners. 

“Gimme your hand, dummy” Jack chirps, voice quiet, maybe a touch soft. Connor returns his hand to Jack’s lap and lets Jack draw the cloth back and forth, dabbing lightly when he reaches the stitches. The cloth stains a dull red and Jack looks back up at Connor, tentative and fond. 

“You never were good at like, processing your emotions, I guess, but really, Connor, this?” 

Connor whines, low, tries to play it off as pain in his hand, but there was never anyone who could read him quite as well as Jack.

“I already told you, I didn’t get it until it was all in. And I think also, the guys were just so startled by what I was doing, hadn’t seen anything else in my life change besides the fighting. I think they just didn't know what to say.” 

Jack nods, considering. 

“You’re still not out to any of them, then?” 

Connor shakes his head, a negative, and the fringe of his hair brushes against Jack’s cheek. Connor leans in and presses a kiss to where his hair had been, unable to stop the small grin that spreads immediately after. 

“I still haven’t done enough to like, be okay with this. I think that’s what really scared me, before, that you were comfortable enough to even consider coming out and I still felt like I was going to throw up every time my parents asked me how you were. I wasn’t comfortable, even, with our people knowing, ya know, and there you were, dealing with your emotions and shit.” 

Jack drops the damp cloth on the ground beside the bed and then wraps both hands around Connor, dropping them slowly to the bed. Jack reaches up and guides Connor’s face, damp, to the hollow of his throat. 

“I was embarrassed for a long time, after we broke up. Here I was, trying to be a role model or whatever, and I blew things up with my partner because he wasn’t ready to come out and I was. Like, the whole deal is about making everyone comfortable and I knew I had pushed further than you were ready for. The thing, was, at the end, what made me change my mind about coming out, was that I didn’t have the energy to be scared anymore. I was exhausted and no one even knew.” 

Jack pauses there, waits for any interruption from Connor, before continuing.

“I think I knew then, too, that I didn’t have the energy for you to be scared, either. I know how shitty that is and I could have explained things, better, sure.” 

Connor presses his lips against Jack’s collarbone, breathes in the scent of his soap. 

“But I do, now.”

Connor pulls back to make eye-contact with Jack, eyebrows raised, plot lost. 

“You do, what? Now?” 

Jack chuckles, kisses Connor’s forehead again. Connor would fight at least like, twenty more men for Jack to kiss his forehead again, the plan all along, his brain unhelpfully chimes. 

“I have energy, now, for things to be more complicated. To be around, if you wanted me to be, whether it was as a friend or as something more. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this and, I mean god, Connor, you have to know that there’s still something there for me, too, if you’ll have it.” 

Connor blinks in surprise. Jack’s face is open and it’s been so long since Connor has been able to look, since Connor has seen him unguarded. Connor wants everything, probably, stomach churning at the thought of losing it now, even when he has to answer. 

“I want that, fuck I want that so much, you know? But Jack like, fucking look at me. I mean, we both know I’m not ready. I want you more than anything, I think, and I also know I can’t hurt you again. Not like this.” 

Jack scoots down on the bed so he’s eye to eye with Connor, face solemn. Calmer than Connor would have predicted for the circumstances. 

“I’ll be there, when you’re ready, if you want me, but I can be here as a friend until then, okay?” 

Connor nods. 

“Okay, Jack.” 

Jack nudges him with a shoulder. 

“I mean it, Con. You said it yourself, there are some things to work through, here, and like, who better than me to get it, ya know?” 

Connor smiles back, tentative, and snakes a hand out from between their bodies to grab a hold of Jack’s wrist. Jack will have to leave soon, at least by early morning so no one else on the team sees, and maybe they’ll call each other, now, but mid-season is still mid-season, and Connor has a lot to think about, a lot to find time to do around playing hockey. 

Connor rubs a steady pattern into Jack’s wrist, featherlight over his veins, pausing to press down every minute or so, tightening, possessive. Jack squeezes back, an understanding, or maybe a response, Connor isn’t sure. Connor needs to relearn some of Jack’s mannerisms. 

It’ll be alright, though. He’s got time.

**Author's Note:**

> I love mceichel and think so fondly of everyone who still carries the torch years later. maybe, one day, Jack and Connor will interact on camera, social media, anywhere for more than 10 seconds and we can all together say, 'finally, some fucking food' 
> 
> as always - if there's something you'd like tagged that i didn't flag, please let me know!


End file.
